


and i will be your lord (i'll always keep you safe and warm)

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, soft!sandorclegane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18729148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Abandoning your pack, then. Not much of a wolf, I’d wager.” He’s taunting her. Usually it wouldn’t hurt but tonight it does.Tears well in her eyes and she throws one of the bones at Sandor’s ugly face. It hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t even move. “Don’t. Just don’t.”Something close to regret flickers over his face. “It’s not your pack that’s making you leave, then. There’s something else.” He reaches to his hip, dragging a flask to his lips. She wonders if there’s really ale in there, or just water - after the battle, all the mead in Winterfell dried up faster than a river during summertime.He points at her accusingly. “It’s the boy, isn’t it? The one with the stupid face.”Her heart stops in her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”





	and i will be your lord (i'll always keep you safe and warm)

 

At nightfall, Arya asks him if she still has to call him the Hound. 

 

He grunts, turning the roasting rabbit over the fire. “I don’t give a shit.” He grimaces at her over the flames. “Why, does it matter to you?”

 

“Not really,” Arya replies. Her horse bumps her arm with its nose, begging for a stroke. She does so absentmindedly, carding her fingers through its rough coat. “It’s what Joffrey called you though. Doesn’t that bother you?” She wishes she could get rid of every trace of the prince, wishes she could rid her mind of his very memory.

 

The Hound shakes his head. With his head engulfed in black shadow Arya can barely see his scar. “The prick’s dead, and I’m used to the name. There are worse ones, after all.” 

 

“Well, I hate it,” Arya mutters derisively. “I’ll call you Sandor from now on. All right?”

 

“All right, all right,” Sandor snaps. “But don’t think I won’t stop calling you the Stark bitch. That one suits you fine.” 

 

“You called my sister  _ Little Bird _ ,” She points out. “Why don’t I get a nice nickname too?”

 

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Sandor mutters, tearing the rabbit apart like - well, like a hound. He hands her a chunk of roasted flesh, and she notices hers is much larger than his. She wants to argue for him to take the bigger piece but one look at his face and she knows it would be useless. 

 

She’s hungry, starving really. She hadn’t eaten at the feast, or later, after - 

 

She doesn’t want to think about Gendry. So she eats. 

 

They finish their meal in moments. The Hound licks his fingers gracelessly, and after a moment Arya does the same, sucking the sweet fat off of her fingertips. The flesh tastes of wind and snow, of the North. She wonders  if the rabbits taste different down south. 

 

“Just like old times,” He mutters under his breath, tossing the bones aside into the long grass. “You and me and a bloody horse. It’s all so fucking nostalgic.” 

 

“Just like old times,” Arya agrees. “Except this time I won’t be going home.” 

 

Sandor takes pause at that. “Were you serious then? About not going back?”   
  


“Do I look like the type to joke?” 

 

“Then what’ll you do? Wander around like the stories, slaying giants and saving maidens?” His voice is  almost amused. “I thought you hated heroes.” 

 

She could punch him, she  _ could.  _ “I do,” She says through gritted teeth. “But I don’t want to go back.” 

 

“Abandoning your pack, then. Not much of a wolf, I’d wager.” He’s taunting her. Usually it wouldn’t hurt but tonight it does.  

 

Tears well in her eyes and she throws one of the bones at Sandor’s ugly face. It hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t even move. “Don’t. Just don’t.” 

 

Something close to regret flickers over his face. “It’s not your pack that’s making you leave, then. There’s something else.” He reaches to his hip, dragging a flask to his lips. She wonders if there’s really ale in there, or just water - after the battle, all the mead in Winterfell dried up faster than a river during summertime. 

 

He points at her accusingly. “It’s the boy, isn’t it? The one with the stupid face.” 

 

Her heart stops in her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

 

Sandor narrows his eyes. There’s nothing mirthful in his gaze anymore. “What did he do, girl? What was it?”

 

She stays evasive; she knows he hates when she does that. “I’ll tell you what happened, if you tell me why you chose to ask about him and him alone.” 

 

He snorts. “It wasn’t very bloody hard to figure out.” He runs his fingers along the skin of the leather flask almost lovingly. “I shared a table with him at the feast. Miserable old prick,” He added. “But the first thing he asked when we broke bread was  _ Where’s Arya? Where is she? _ ” 

 

“And what did you say?” Arya whispers breathlessly. She feels like the air has gone still and cold around her. 

 

“Not much. Just that I knew what was going on.” 

 

“So what  _ was  _ going on?”

 

He furrows his eyebrows. “I’m not saying it twice.” 

 

“You’ve said every curse under the sun to me.” She throws another bone at him. He scowls and bats it away midair. “Tell me, what’d you say?”

 

“Fine, you little bitch,” Sandor snaps. “I told him I knew you two were screwing each other,” Arya’s face goes bright red at that, “And I told him he deserved to live a little.” 

 

She knows now why he didn’t want to tell her. “You can shut up now.” 

 

“It’d be my bloody pleasure.” He takes another fierce sip of his drink. 

  
  


They sit in silence for a long while, and then she blurts it out. “He proposed to me.” 

 

He hides his shock well. Not well enough, though; his eyes go wider than plates. “You’re fucking kidding me.” 

 

“I’m not.” She shakes her head. “They legitimized him, you know. He’s a real Baratheon now.” 

 

“Oh yes,” Sandor nods. “They toasted him and everything.” His lip curls. “It’s all fool’s work.” 

 

“He went to find me during the feast. He said I would be his wife, the Lady of Storm's End."  It hurts to even remember his words, much less his touch or his taste or the way he’d looked into her eyes, so hopeful it could work. 

 

_ I’ve never had a family.  _

 

_ I can be your family.  _

 

“Romantic,” Sandor slurs. His deep voice brings her back to the present.  “It still doesn’t explain why you’re pissed, though.” 

 

“Because he’s a fool!” Arya slams her fist into the grass, and her horse nickers in surprise, lifting its hooves from the ground.  “I’ve told him so many times I wasn’t a lady, that I never could be. He was drunk, and stupid, and he asked me something he  _ knew  _ I couldn’t say yes to.” 

 

_ He’s more a bull than a stag,  _ She wants to add. 

 

She grimaces at the dirt and glances back at Sandor. His face is sympathetic, to her surprise, his features slanted with unhappiness. “You’ll never be a lady, then?”

 

“Never,” She whispers fiercely. “It’s not what I want.” 

 

“Why?”

 

She laughs sharply. “I know what being a lady is. It’s marrying some high lord and bearing their sons. It’s wasting away in a dark room and never knowing what’s beyond the castle walls. It’s what almost happened to my sister.” She stares at the moon; it’s very bright tonight. “No, that isn’t the life for me. It never has been.” 

 

“Your sister is a lady even now,” Sandor points out quietly. “The dragon queen as well. They’re not wasting away, are they?”

 

“All the same,” She disagrees fiercely, blinking away tears for a second time. “I had to say no. And now I won’t ever be able to face him without feeling like I’m breaking apart.” 

 

She curls her hands into fists, almost flinching when Sandor reaches over and places a hand on her back. His hand is warm; that surprises her. “Perhaps he knows that. Perhaps he meant for you to be a different kind of lady, Arya Stark.” 

 

She sniffs, wipes at her nose. “You’re being  _ nice _ , and you called me Arya. Where is Sandor Clegane and how do I find him?”

 

He laughs, a big booming laugh. “I’m an arse, but I’m not heartless.” He frowns. “You’re still young. There’s still time.” 

 

“He won’t want me,” She whispers. “I was so cruel to him. But I wasn’t trying to be, and I doubt he understands that at all.” 

 

“He’s very stupid,” Sandor murmurs. “But I don’t think he’s so stupid as to not want you.” 

 

“You’re being very strange,” She decides.  “When we get back to Winterfell, I will have to tell Sansa about how kind the awful Hound was to me.” 

 

Sandor’s lips twitch. “Back to Winterfell?” 

 

“Yes,” She says. “Yes, I think I will go back in some time.” She shrugs off his hand and glares at him. “And you’re coming, too.” 

 

“The fuck I am.” 

 

“Yes, you  _ are _ !” She shoves at his arm. “My sister requires a sword shield, and Winterfell needs as many warriors as they came spare. You’re coming back with me, Sandor Clegane. Now and forever.” 

 

The corner of his eyes crinkle and she can scarcely believe the man before her is the same one who killed the butcher’s boy in the woods so many years ago. 

 

_ (She wonders what Mycah would say if he was here with her by the fire, and she is sure he would embrace her and be glad for all that has changed.) _

 

“As the she-wolf commands.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> gendry really did shoot his shot huh


End file.
